


is anybody there?

by ernestdummkompf (JehanFerres)



Category: 1776 (1972), 1776 - Edwards/Stone
Genre: Everyone Is Gay, M/M, Post-Canon, like. maybe a few days post canon lmao, slightly post canon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-02
Updated: 2016-11-02
Packaged: 2018-08-28 13:44:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,140
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8448250
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JehanFerres/pseuds/ernestdummkompf
Summary: God knew that his Quaker sensibilities only went so far (from what he had heard, as far as “swing a cane at John Adams when offended”), but there was definitely a point at which he stopped being an “associated” Quaker and became just a Quaker. Adams suspected that “joining the army” may well bring that limit to the forefront.





	

**Author's Note:**

> this is the first 1776 fic i've actually finished writing and like. i'm pleased with it. dickinson and rutledge are gaye, dickinson is sickly to fit in with Actual History, the usual.

There had been, for the past couple of days, a strange sense of positive energy mixed with an overwhelming negativity permeating the Continental Congress. Partly in an attempt to escape from the heat of a large number of people being in the same room at a time and partly to think about where Dickinson could have got to, Adams had escaped the chamber where everybody was apparently still getting drunk and climbed up the stairs to the bell tower.

He had been told by Hancock that he was to invite Dickinson to a sort of farewell gathering, which didn’t really seem unfair. Or at least it wouldn’t have if it wasn’t _Adams_. Finding _Dickinson_. His head still hurt somewhat from the beating he had taken a couple of months ago.

But Dickinson was almost certainly worried. God knew that his Quaker sensibilities only went _so_ far (from what he had heard, as far as “swing a cane at John Adams when offended”), but there was definitely a point at which he stopped being an “associated” Quaker and became just a Quaker. Adams suspected that “joining the army” may well bring that limit to the forefront.

But he tried to push that thought away. That was for Dickinson to deal with (or not, he suspected) as it came up.

The quiet of the bell tower compared to the noise of the chamber was more of a surprise to Adams than he had been expecting. Usually, at least for the past few months, he had found the chamber in contemplative mood when he was not there. (Or, as Franklin had put it, enjoying the last moments of silence before New England noise blustered in.) In contrast, the rest of Liberty Hall was nearly silent by comparison.

Despite the fact that Adams could absolutely talk for the colonies, he couldn’t help but find the silence at least somewhat refreshing. He stayed in the stairwell just below the Bell Tower for a moment, partly thinking of what to write home to Abigail but mostly just enjoying the atmosphere. The sun was just sinking below the horizon and it was darkening slowly – and, better yet, relatively cool.

How people like Rutledge managed to cope with the extended periods of _too damn hot_ was beyond him, but the second of July was the only time he thought he had ever seen Rutledge remove his coat in the congressional chamber. The same went for Dickinson, actually. Maybe the epithet of “cool, considerate men” that Adams had come up with was rather more literal than he had at first assumed it to be. The thought, he would be the first to admit, amused him.

He was still thinking about this when he got up the stairs into the bell tower, and very nearly fell back down them again when he noticed a figure stood by the window, looking out. Not sure of how to rouse the other man, he cleared his throat.

Good God. It was Dickinson.

He looked, by degrees, equally as annoyed as Adams, then somewhat embarrassed. “I’m sorry. I was just… I mean…” He sighed, and tipped his head back slightly. “I’ll leave.” His voice came out more clearly, Adams noted. “I didn’t mean to intrude.”

That was almost an apology. As such, Adams was almost stunned.

“No, you weren’t. I mean.” Adams frowned when he realised how contradictory the statement was. Usually, he would have assumed that it was Dickinson trying to guide him into a trap, but he had seemed genuinely thrown. “I was looking for you.”

Dickinson looked puzzled. “This is an odd place to start, I must admit.” He moved aside to allow Adams to also stand in front of the window.

“Yes. Well. Not immediately.” He folded his arms on the windowsill and tried to avoid looking at Dickinson. “I would have thought you’d have left,” he continue after a moment.

“You hoped that I would have left, I assume.” Dickinson was looking the other way, so he couldn’t see how much Adams bristled. But he seemed to know either way, based on how he laughed. “Well. I _did_ leave. But I returned.”

“Stating the obvious, somewhat,” Adams huffed, trying to disguise how curious he was about what Dickinson had said. Dickinson moved beside him. His hand brushed against Adams’ arm, and Adams would have pulled away, had he not realised that Dickinson seemed to need something to brace himself against. Trying to be subtle about it, Adams straightened up, and moved his arm somewhat so that Dickinson could re-centre himself. He didn’t acknowledge it, but it seemed to help even so.

“Well… yes.” Dickinson was leaning against the wall now. “I suppose.” It hadn’t struck Adams before, because Dickinson could absolutely debate circles around him and shout at anybody who annoyed him, but now that they were on their own, he looked somewhat washed out. The only thing that Adams could think to compare it to was when a book or a switch of fabric was left in direct light for too long, and its colour became paler.

“So…?” Adams looked at him.

“So, Mary is not best pleased with my decision to leave to fight.” He grimaced. “To say the least of it.”

Adams grimaced too. “Well…” _Tread carefully_ , he told himself, but then promptly didn’t do so. “I see your difficulty.” Dickinson raised one eyebrow in an infuriating way. “But surely, your wife…?” He trailed off.

“I know what you’re about to say,” Dickinson said, smugly.

“Of course.” Adams glowered at him, and was about to continue when Dickinson cut in.

“I wasn’t finished. _And_ I would advise that you don’t continue it.”

He paused for effect. “What was it you said, Mister Adams?” Dickinson went on, that same ‘look, I have talked you into a corner and will now proceed to verbally destroy you and your self-esteem’ expression on his face that Adams had seen hundreds of times before. Somehow, it didn’t annoy him so much anymore. “‘If I should have had such a wife, I should have shot myself’?” He grinned. “Well. I cannot imagine that Abigail would have been best pleased to hear of that.”

“Well- no- but-” Adams gibbered for a moment, but then fell silent. Dickinson chuckled, and then slumped against the windowsill again. Definitely unwell, Adams decided.

Finally, Adams managed to work up the courage to speak again. “Listen. Mister Dickinson, I…” He cleared his throat, finding himself getting rather emotional.

Dickinson opened his mouth to say something, but stopped when he saw the general aspect of Adams’ face. “I wish that we hadn’t got off on such a bad footing. Or rather, finished on bad footing.” Adams couldn’t help but remember how complimentary he had been of Dickinson early on.

“You sound like you’re going to say something,” Dickinson said. “Or rather, trying to say something.” His voice sounded thick.

Adams sighed, deciding that he should at least _try_ to be sympathetic to him. “Well… yes,” he said, sighing.

“Well, you may as well say it.” This time, when Dickinson tried to prop himself back up again, he noticeably pushed himself off using Adams, before casting him a look that, had he been receiving it just a couple of weeks ago, would have stopped him in his tracks. As it was, though, he found it much less effective.

“I was looking for you, Mister Dickinson, to ask you whether you would be interested in attending a…” He searched for the word, still hovering near enough to Dickinson to catch him if he seemed to weaken again. “A sort of gathering? Tonight. At the Bunch of Grapes.”

Dickinson had shifted his weight from being against Adams’ side to resting on his cane, and regarded Adams quizzically. “Much the same as current affairs?” he asked.

Adams laughed. “Very similar, yes, just moving the drunkenness to another location,” he joked. “Although I will hope that somebody will be separating Mister Rutledge from any hard spirits,” he joked.

Having seen far too much of Rutledge drunk in the past year, Dickinson was inclined to agree. However, he was also keen to discover what, in particular, Adams had been subjected to. “I don’t know _what_ you’re referring to,” he said, with what he hoped to be obvious _faux_ innocence.

Apparently Adams took him up on it. “Well, Mister Dickinson, I would posit that you know _exactly_ what I’m referring to,” he said, smiling. “He was… he was…” He frowned. “Well, I assume you recall how he acted to Hall when they first met?” Adams tried to phrase it tactfully, careful of offending Dickinson’s sensibilities.

Dickinson just laughed in response, moving away to allow Adams to get out of the way. “Flirtatious?” he posited. Adams nodded. “Not to you, I hope, sir?” he asked, with what Adams assumed to be a gloating tone.

“The very same,” Adams said. “Shall we proceed back downstairs to catch the others before they leave? I can point out the unfortunate victims.” He waved his own cane vaguely in the direction of the stairs, sensible of asking Dickinson whether he needed help but still considering it. “I imagine they’ll think I left immediately after being told to do so,” he explained, “rather than remaining behind.”

“And very fortunate for you that you did remain behind,” Dickinson said, his voice dropping slightly as he followed Adams down the stairs. As soon as they both reached the foot of the stairs, Adams looked at him with confusion. “Mary was not best pleased with me, as I said,” he explained, suddenly avoiding looking at Adams. “ _Very_ displeased. I came here to leave her in peace for a while – not my own idea, you’ll understand. But I doubt she would be best pleased to have you calling at her door.”

Dickinson clearly didn’t want to go into further detail than that, and Adams wasn’t sure he wanted to hear it. It was very much against Adams’ thoughts to allow Mary to have that much agency in the matter, but it was, from what he had heard, very much a Delaware Valley thing. Or a Quaker thing, he wasn’t sure of the details. But it was certainly not a John Adams thing.

What appeared to be the first of the delegates were leaving when they emerged from the stairwell. Presently just Cesar Rodney and Thomas McKean were slowly making their way to the door, but Rodney changed tack with surprising speed to intercept them before they could proceed into the main hall. “Ah, Mister Adams!” He started speaking just as McKean reappeared behind him.

“Not accompanying us to the Bunch of Grapes, eh, Cesar?” Adams asked, smiling.

Cesar shook his head and coughed into his handkerchief. “No, no. The spirit is willing but the flesh is… well, the flesh is unable.” He shrugged. “And see, Mister Dickinson? You aren’t the only one who can quote the Good Book.”

Dickinson laughed, somewhat awkwardly. “Nor did I ever take the liberty of assuming that I was.” But his voice was kinder than it had been last time he had talked to Cesar.

“Well, regardless, we ought to make our merry way back. Oh, John?” Both looked up. “Oh, Adams,” Cesar clarified, laughing. “I take it that you’re going with Franklin?” he asked.

“And Rutledge, yes.” Adams tried not to make his annoyance with this too obvious, but he must have done, because Cesar hid a laugh behind his hand. “Yes, you can laugh, certainly,” he said. “I, however, will not be doing so.”

“Being stuck in a room with young Neddy _and_ Franklin, for days on end, and with no more enlightening company?” Dickinson laughed. “I wouldn’t wish it upon my worst enemy.”

“Which I would not be hesitant to remind you that you _are_ ,” said a voice behind them.

Rutledge had, of course, been eavesdropping, as seemed to all how knew him to be his natural state. “Now, I would apologise, Neddy,” Dickinson said, transferring his weight onto Rutledge. Them being about the same height, it seemed to Adams to be a lot more natural. “But you didn’t _have_ to be there.”

“And if I hadn’t been there, Mister Dickinson, how would I have been able to listen in on your conversation in the first place?” Rutledge grinned lazily and slipped his arm around Dickinson’s waist. “I… did try to persuade Mister Hewes to attend,” he said, now addressing McKean and Rodney. “But…”

“Well, I wouldn’t expect too much from him.” Rodney shrugged.

“Believe me, sir, I do not.”

Whatever was going on was something that Adams knew absolutely nothing about, and, as a consequence, didn’t particularly interest him, or seem important to him. Instead of staying and listening to a conversation that he probably wasn’t welcome in anyway, he wandered off to find Jefferson and Franklin.


End file.
